Morituri Te Salutant
by Chiiyo86
Summary: If everybody contemplates the infinite instead of fixing the drains, many of us will die of cholera." John Rich


A/N: _Written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort fic challenge on hoodie_time, in answer to ariadnes_string's prompt (I know, again): "future!Dean, future!Castiel, set in the 5.04 AU, circa. 2014. The conditions under which the resistance fighters live make them vulnerable to disease. Dean, Cas, et. al. struggle to deal with the an outbreak/epidemic of some disease (could be something caused by poor living conditions, like cholera, but doesn't have to be--just have it be human, not supernatural). Dean eventually succumbs (to the disease, to exhaustion, even to despair, but something with physical symptoms, please, not just emotional distress). Castiel is there for him." I have to thank, as always, Wave Obscura for being my beta, and ariadnes_string for her awesome prompts._

Disclaimer: _I don't own anything Supernatural related._

---

The first time Dean went to Hell, it was painfully quick – the hounds tore him to shreds, growling and drooling, and there was pain, agonizing, white hot pain, with the rotten egg stench of sulfur and Sam screaming, screaming like he was the one dying. Then that was it, that was Hell, and Dean stayed there for a very, very long time.

The second time it was different. The second time Hell came to Dean, and it took him a while to recognize it because he was fooled by the fact that he was alive. Fooled by hope, by the belief that he could manage it if he fought hard enough. Fuck destiny, he thought. Fuck the angels, Zachariah, and Michael, and Lucifer. They would not get him.

He was so wrong. He knew it now, but the knowledge couldn't help him anymore.

---

The first sign was undoubtedly the day Castiel materialized in his room without warning, like he always did. It never failed to make Dean's heart leap in his chest, but when he had asked Castiel if it was possible to announce his arrival with some trumpets or something, the angel had stared at him blankly.

"Never mind," Dean had said, shaking his head at Castiel's absent sense of humor. "What do you want?"

"Something happened," Castiel had said, and there was something in his eyes that wasn't usually there. It was almost… compassionate, and Dean had known then that he didn't want to hear what would come out of Castiel's mouth. It had been too late, though. "Lucifer has found his vessel. His true vessel, I mean."

"You mean that… You mean he…"

"He has Sam, yes. Dean, I'm sorry."

Castiel had come closer, raising a hand in a clumsy attempt to imitate a human gesture of comfort. Dean had taken a step back, wanting to hide from what Castiel was telling him, to erase the words. He had tried to look for Sam a few weeks after the phone conversation when his brother had told him about being Lucifer's vessel, but he hadn't been able to find him. His phone was disconnected, no one had heard from him, not even Bobby. Either Sam had taken his advise to heart and hidden himself better than he ever had before, or something had happened to him. That was two years ago, and Dean had tried to hold onto the idea that Sam was alive but on the run like Dean was, hiding from Lucifer and from his and Dean's destiny. So much for that hope, it seemed.

It had been the first blow, the hardest to take. Then it all went downhill from there.

---

"Is it me or is it hot in here? No? Man, I can't breathe."

Robert swallowed convulsively, tugged at his collar. The man had been jittery for the past half an hour, nervous, unable to sit still in the back of the Impala as they were driving back to the camp. Castiel glanced at Dean. His friend's eyes never left the road, but a muscle was twitching in his jaw – Dean had come to the same conclusion than Castiel; Robert was infected. It had happened a few times, when they had wandered in quarantine zones, a man would get infected and they never knew it before he turned on them. But experience had taught them that there were signs, symptoms betraying the spread of the virus in the victim's blood. Robert was exhibiting them all.

"Dean," Castiel said quietly.

"I'm thinking, Cas!" Dean snapped.

"What?" Robert asked anxiously. "What's going on, guys?"

"Calm down, dude," muttered Jim, who was sitting in the back with Robert. Castiel caught the kid's distressed look in the rearview mirror. Obviously, he was aware of the situation too. And Robert, Castiel wondered, did he know? Could he feel the infection pumping through his veins? Maybe he preferred to remain unaware.

Dean swore softly, and all of a sudden he pressed his foot on the brake pedal. The car came to a brutal stop with a horrible screeching noise, and Castiel would have ended up head first in the windshield if he hadn't been expecting it.

"Jesus fucking _Christ_, Dean!" Robert yelled. "Why did you do that for? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Robert," Dean said, his voice deceptively calm. "Get out of the car."

"Huh? Why?"

"Get out. Please."

Robert frowned, looking confused. Dean never said please, not anymore at least. That was how everyone knew him, Castiel the only one who remembered him from another time. Their fearless leader, as Castiel called him jokingly sometimes, until it wasn't a joke anymore. Dean didn't fear anything, because his biggest fear had already come true. But that too Castiel was the only one to know.

Jim had gotten out of the car, his eyes wide with fear and anticipation, his young face deathly pale.

"Why don't you come out, Robert?" he said, and his voice was trembling.

"I don't…" Robert started to say, before his eyes widened suddenly. "No!" he shouted. "It can't, it can't, I'm not…"

Dean got out of the car and opened the door on Robert's side, grabbed Robert by the arm and pulled him out with a brutal tug. The man was shrieking.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

"Robert!" Dean called, trying to shout above Robert's heart-wrenching cries. "Calm down! Don't make it more difficult, please!" He sounded like _he_ was the one begging.

Robert was sobbing now, choking, heavy tears rolling down his unshaved cheeks.

"Please, _please,_" he babbled. "Please don't kill me, Dean! I was good, I served you well, I, I…"

Castiel came from behind Dean, and put a hand on Robert's shoulder, feeling it tremble under his fingertips.

"We're going to hold him while you do what you have to do. Jim, come here. Take his other arm."

Dean let Robert go, leaving him in Castiel's grasp. Jim took the other arm as ordered, looking frightened but determined and so, so young. When they both had a hold on Robert, the man had to feel that the end was near because he started to struggle with all his strength, trying to shake them off and kick at them.

"Let me go! LET ME GO! I will kill you, I will…"

A resounding shot, and Robert was silent. His warm blood had splashed on Jim and Castiel, painting red dots on their faces. Castiel wiped it absentmindedly, but Jim dropped Robert's body and let out a shrill whimper.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck."

He turned, fell on his knees, and puked. Dean leaned on his car, his gun still in his hand, and closed his eyes.

---

Dean buried Robert on the side of the road with a shovel he took from the Impala's trunk, a vestige from his life as a hunter. He didn't let Castiel dig with him, and Castiel knew better than trying to force his help on his friend. Sometimes, Dean just needed to do things by himself. Most of the time, really.

When it was done, they climbed back in the Impala and drove away in silence. Jim looked shell-shocked, and Dean was withdrawn so far into himself that even Castiel had no idea of what went through his mind.

"The others have probably reached the camp already," he finally said. Small talk, this was one of these human arts that he was only started to have a grip on. "They must be worried that something happened to us."

"Well, we'll explain everything when we get back." Dean was speaking through clenched teeth, like the simple act of uttering words was painful.

"Yeah."

As expected, when they arrived at the camp they were assailed with worried questions. In a time like the one they were living in, unexpected events were generally bad news. The five men who had been with them on the expedition, but riding in another car, surrounded them as soon as they left the Impala, all speaking at the same time.

"Where's Robert?" Ed finally asked, and his question silenced the others. They peered into the inside of the car, and when they could see that Robert wasn't there, they all looked at Dean questioningly.

Castiel saw Dean's face shutter. Ed had been one of Robert's closest friends; the news of his death would hit him hard. But before Dean had the time to do more than open his mouth to answer, someone else joined the group.

"Dean, can I speak to you? In private?"

"Doc," as they all called him, had been a doctor in a small town of Indiana for the past fifty years. His wife and daughter had been among the first victims to the Croatoan virus, and he had joined their camp when they had been barely more than twenty. He was welcomed like a godsend – in their precarious situation, a doctor was more precious than gold.

His looked grimmer than Castiel had ever seen him, and it sent alarms into his mind. Their situation had been desperate enough in the past, the problems growing and accumulating the more people came to join the camp. This time though, Castiel could feel that it was really serious.

"Guys, leave us alone," Dean ordered, his voice tense.

"What about Robert?"

"Robert is dead. He was infected."

The blunt announcement made everyone gasp, even though they must have known at some level that it was the reason for Robert's absence. With a look Dean conveyed the order to get lost, and they did, stunned and subdued. Doc kept glancing nervously at them, not talking until he was sure they were all out of earshot. Castiel didn't move but remained standing one step behind Dean. Doc didn't say anything about it, because no one ever questioned his place at Dean's side, or their relationship. He was their leader's faithful shadow. "My very own fucking guardian angel," Dean sometimes snarked, and Castiel's always smiled at that, though he wasn't sure it was a compliment.

"So. Robert's is dead, huh?" Doc finally said.

"Yeah."

"What a shame. He was a fine man."

"Cut the crap, Doc," Dean interrupted him impatiently. "What's going on?"

"Well, it must be a bad day." Doc had a forced chuckle. "Jeremy is dead."

"What? But he was fine when we left! Well, not fine, but he was just… puking, wasn't he?"

"Oh, he puked alright. Among other things. After a few hours he was dead as a doornail."

"What could be doing that? Is it…" Dean forced a breath in. He turned at Castiel. "Could it be more shit sent to us by Lucifer?"

"Well, you know more about demons and supernatural stuff than I do," Doc said before Castiel could answer. "But I have worked in poor countries when I was a young and idealistic doctor, and I think I know what it is."

"And what is it?"

Doc came closer to Dean, leaning towards him like he was going to whisper a secret in his ear.

"I think it's _cholera_," Doc whispered tensely. "I think we have a fucking choleraepidemic on our hands, Dean."

"Jesus." Dean rubbed his mouth, and took a quick look around before he asked: "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be without a laboratory test."

Dean swore again and let out a long, controlled breath. Castiel could see how hard he was fighting to pull himself together, so soon after Robert's horrendous death. Doc must have noticed too, because he didn't press Dean into saying something.

"Okay, okay," Dean mumbled after a few seconds of silence. "Um…Where does the disease come from?"

"Probably from water, I'd say. It's often the case."

"But we're always boiling the water we take from the river. Isn't it enough to kill the… whatever is causing this?"

"Bacteria," Doc supplied absently. "It's a bacteria. And boiling the water is good, but then we keep it in cans, and when people touch the cans they can transmit the bacteria to the water… New people come here all the time, God know where they've been before. If they don't wash their hands properly… Well, it's enough to start an epidemic."

"You keep talking about an epidemic. You think there will be more cases?"

"I'm pretty sure there will be. Cholera is very contagious. We have to take measures now before it decimates us."

"What kind of measures? I have no fucking idea what to do."

Dean sounded on the verge of panic, and Castiel took a step closer, silent support as always. The threat of an epidemic felt remote to him, though; he had never been sick. His new condition as a mortal changed that, but he couldn't muster any sense of worry.

"Well, first of all, we have to warn the others." Doc's tone was all business.

"They will panic! I'm not sure I can deal with a riot _and _an epidemic."

"We have no other choice. We can keep the disease from spreading only with the cooperation of everyone. The more important thing will be to insist that everyone wash their hands frequently. This is extremely important."

"Okay, you're the doc, I trust your word on that. What else?"

"Um…" Doc rubbed the bald top of his head. "Disinfect the water. With bleaching powder, or… liquid laundry bleach. Javelle water. Whatever you can find in town. We'll have to disinfect the bodies too, and bury them far from the camp."

"Bodies… What did you do with Jeremy's body?"

"I, uh, left him in his tent, wrapped in a sheet. It's not enough, we'll have to wash it. Even dead, Jeremy is still contagious."

"Okay. What about… meds and stuff? What do we do with the people who are sick?"

"Antibiotics would be nice, but there isn't anything we can do to cure the disease once someone is infected. Dehydration is what kills people affected by cholera, though, so the best we can do is to keep them hydrated with an oral rehydration solution… We can make something with water, salt and sugar, it should do."

"Right." Dean remained silent for a moment, withdrawn into himself, thinking, before he said: "So I guess we have to go back in quarantine zone."

Doc looked about to protest, but nodded grimly instead. That's what he had meant by "in town" – the closest town, touched by the Croatoan virus, had been submitted to the same fate all the towns plagued by the demonic virus had known; it had been evacuated and bombed. But whenever the refugees of the camp needed supplies – food, clothes, hygiene products, or meds – Dean, Castiel, and a few willing people went downtown for the most dangerous shopping trip there was. They were just coming back from one, but now they needed to find bleaching powder or javelle water, and more salt and sugar than they had. What had seemed like unnecessary luxury before was now the key to their survival.

Dean turned to Castiel.

"Are you coming?" he inquired. He always asked for Castiel's help like that, like Castiel could refuse.

"Of course," Castiel answered, as always. "Should I call the others?"

"Hmm, no. Let them… deal with Robert's death. You and me should be enough."

"It's dangerous, Dean," Doc intervened.

"Don't I know it," Dean replied tersely, and he started walking to his car.

Before Castiel went after him, he glanced at Doc and saw him sadly shaking his head.

---

Contrary to what Dean had predicted, the refugees didn't panic when they were told about the cause of Jeremy's death, not at first anyway. Maybe it was because the Apocalypse created a general state of numbness – Jeremy died of cholera, but Robert died of the Croatoan virus. People's houses had been destroyed, the world as they knew it had come to an end. What was a very natural disease compared to this?

Several sanitary rules dictated by Doc were pinned to trees all over the camp, spelled for everyone in Dean's messy handwriting. But a lot of people didn't take them seriously, to the point that Dean had to order men to watch people coming back from the latrines and check if they had washed their hands.

It all changed when the disease spread and the body count started to get higher, and they had to watch their fellow refugees moan in distress, puking and shitting all over themselves, too weak to move and clean themselves, until they died in a day or less. The death of children, in particular, did a lot to impress on people's mind how serious the situation was.

They had to erect a makeshift tent with tarp to keep the sick people apart from the others and limit the risks of contamination. There weren't many volunteers to take care of them, clean them and keep them hydrated, except for Doc, Castiel and Dean, and family, when the person was fortunate enough to still have some. Castiel found he didn't mind this role, the cleaning and the making the sick drink, the whispering words of comfort to them to divert their minds from the debilitating weakness and the pain of cramps. He wasn't repulsed by excrements like humans usually were; he wasn't afraid of contagion even though he knew the threat was real. He didn't feel like one of them, not yet.

He and Dean were taking care of some of the bodies, now, following Doc's detailed prescriptions - washing them with disinfected water, filling the mouth and anus with cotton wool, wrapping the body in a sheet. Castiel knew on some level that the emaciated, bluish corpses were ugly according to human standards, but he felt no disgust. But as he was washing with gloved hands the body of an old man that death made look even older, he was filled with a dreadful sensation, sudden and foreboding. He saw himself in the future, dead, maybe not of cholera but dead all the same, and he had never felt it in this intuitive way before. He knew then the difference between knowing that you were going to die, and _knowing _it, in your gut, Dean would say.

Castiel's breath caught and he stopped what he was doing, raising his head to look at Dean. His friend was working with his brow furrowed, his lips pressed in a tight line and his nose wrinkled. He was probably feeling the repulsion that was eluding Castiel, but it had not kept him from offering himself for the task. It was a form of punishment, like most of what Dean was doing on a regular basis.

He was taking care of a little girl, handling her small body with care and respect. Her name was Emily, Castiel remembered.

"It's always worse when it's children," Dean said, probably feeling Castiel's stare on him.

"She's in a better place," Castiel offered.

Dean snorted derisively.

"You know, someone once told me that that was bullshit." He paused, like a thought had stricken him. "Hey, but maybe you know better. Does she… she's really in a better place?"

Castiel considered the possibility of lying. Humans sometimes lied to make each other feel better, and if there was one thing that Castiel wanted, it was to make Dean feel better in whatever way he still could. But Dean would know, Castiel concluded. Dean always knew.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "It was never something I had to take care of."

"Oh, okay."

Dean opened his mouth to add something, but was interrupted by an uproar coming from the camp.

"What the fuck is going on?" Dean muttered as he took off his gloves and stood up with a grunt, knee joints creaking. Castiel followed him.

They found most of the refugees gathered in a circle and whispering to each other, frightened, excited, and curious. The crowd was surrounding three people while keeping themselves at respectable distance. A man was standing, yelling and gesturing at the two other people, another man and a woman on their knees in the mud, their heads lowered. The kneeling man's face showed an angry red mark, and the woman's an older purple bruise. Castiel recognized the furious man as Jack Perry. The woman was his wife Eleanora, and the man was one of his friends – if Castiel remembered correctly, he was named Elliot.

"Hey!" Dean shouted authoritatively. People stepped back to let him and Castiel enter the circle.

"Jack, man, what the fuck are you doing?"

Jack turned, and Dean and Castiel could see now that he was holding his gun in his hand.

"Whoa, whoa." Dean raised his hands, palms forward. "You're going to want to drop that gun, buddy."

"You know what I'm going to do, Dean?" Jack was waving his gun and Dean took a prudent step back, his hand going to his thigh holster. "I'm going to save this fucking camp!"

"Save the camp? From what?"

"From the wrath of God!"

Dean blinked.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, incredulous.

"Yes! Why do you think this is happening to us? The Croatoan virus, and the demons, and now _cholera_. Like we haven't suffered enough! It's going to kill us, all of us. Why do you think it started?"

"Uh, bad luck? Poor hygiene?"

A hint of sarcasm was coloring Dean's tone, but Jack wasn't listening.

"Because some of us are sinners! That… _whore_," he gestured in his wife's direction, "was sleeping with one of my friends. They committed the sin of adultery, and God is punishing all of us for it."

Castiel wanted to say that he didn't think his Father would plague a whole camp with a horrible disease because of two people sleeping with each other when the world was at the hands of Lucifer, but he kept silent. He had no certainties anymore when it came to Him, and anyway his intervention would only anger Dean and puzzle everyone else.

"So," Dean said, "let me sum it up. God had decided to send us cholera because you're so lousy in bed that your wife has to go see elsewhere, and now you're going to make it all better by shooting her and Elliot. I have to say, that's some hilarious bullshit."

Jack's eyes flared in anger and he turned to point his gun at Dean, but Dean had obviously been expecting it and had drawn his own gun. Acting on sheer instinct, Castiel did the same immediately, so that they were both pointing their weapons at Jack.

"You can try to kill me, Jack, if it will make you feel better," Dean said. "But then my buddy the angel will put a bullet in your head. He looks harmless, but he's a good shot. I taught him, you know. You can also try to kill _him_, but then be sure that I won't miss you."

Jack was trembling, both hands holding his gun so tightly that his knuckles were white. Dean's eyes flickered in the direction of some of the men in the crowd, who surrounded Jack quickly and took a hold of him. The man had a panicked look on his face and let his gun drop.

"What do you want us to do with him?" Ed asked.

Dean bent down and picked up Jack's gun.

"Tie him up to a tree. Let him some time to think about God and punishment."

The men took Jack away, who tried in vain to struggle. Dean went to Eleanora and offered his hand to help her up. She avoided his look and walked away from him, arms folded on her chest. Dean watched her going and something in his eyes, something about his body language when he was near her made Castiel wonder whether Dean had slept with her. Not that he was going to ask, of course. That was none of his business.

The crowd was still there, even when Jack, Elliot and Eleanora were gone, and Dean cast them a sharp look. "Don't you all have anything better to do?"

"Maybe Jack's right," someone in the crowd said. "There got to be a reason this is happening to us."

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"Okay, I'm gonna make something clear right now. You can think whatever the fuck you want. You can pray, and kneel on the ground, and ask for God's forgiveness and everything. Personally, I think God doesn't give a rat's ass about us, but hey, that's just me."

Dean didn't look at Castiel when saying this, but the words still cut deeply. It was the worse possible scenario for him, God not giving a damn about his creatures. That was what Uriel had thought. Sometimes, Castiel thought he preferred the idea that God was dead.

"But if one you poor sons of bitches draws a gun and starts sprouting bullshit like Jack just did," Dean continued, "you will get the hell out of this camp and never come back. I don't care if you die of hunger or get turned into Croats or get killed by demons. Is that clear?" Nobody uttered a word. "Do I make myself fucking clear?"

"Crystal clear, Dean, don't worry."

It was Jim's boyish voice, loud and high. Good kid, Castiel thought, and he smiled at the boy.

"Okay, good. Now get lost, people!"

There was a murmur in the crowd before they did as they were told and separated. Dean pressed his palms against his eyes, and Castiel took the few steps needed to be near him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just another day at the office. Goddamn God. Uh, no offense, man."

"None taken." Castiel was way past being offended by anything Dean could say in relation to God. "You were really impressive, you know," he added after a pause. "With the booming voice and the inflexible authority and the 'Do I make myself clear?'"

"Oh, can it."

"No, no. You really showed them who's the boss."

"Shut up, Cas. Sarcasm isn't a good look for you."

But he was smiling and shoving at Castiel's shoulder, so Castiel considered it a win.

---

The following day, Jack was gone, untied from the tree during the night by someone, and as Eleanora was missing too, everyone guessed that _she_ was this someone. Castiel had to wonder why she would do something like that, freeing her husband and maybe running away with him, when he had wanted to kill her, called her a whore. Out of fear, out of guilt for cheating on him?

"Maybe she just loved him," Dean suggested with a shrug.

"Why would she cheat on him if she loved him?"

"I don't know. Could be a lot of reasons. Maybe he couldn't get it up anymore. Maybe he was violent."

"And she would still love him?"

"Some people just get under your skin. They become part of you and there's nothing you can do about it. Whatever happens."

Castiel stared at him, uncomprehending. Dean patted on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Cas. You'll get it when you'll grow up."

"Fuck you," Castiel replied, though he thought he kind of understood what Dean meant. But it always made Dean laugh incredulously when such words came out of Castiel's mouth. It was less heartfelt than usual this time, but it would do.

The Perries were the first to go, but not the only ones. Almost every night, people, sometimes entire families, packed up when everything was dark and silent, and in the morning all they found was a square of flattened and dying grass where the tents used to be.

When Dean didn't find out by himself, it was always who Doc went to him, looking somber and whispering the news to Dean's ear, like there was any way they could keep it secret. Dean, on the other hand, was resigned.

"I can't blame people for wanting to run away," he said one day.

"But they can spread the virus! We can't let those people run around and spread death all over the country!"

"What do you want me to do? Tie them up? _Shoot _them?"

"I don't know! Maybe!"

"Are you serious?"

"More people will die, Dean! It's our responsibility to…"

"People die all the fucking time when it's the end of the world, Doc. The way I see it, we're all fucking screwed to hell anyway."

It became rapidly clear that they couldn't stay where they were. They were trying to be as careful as they could to contain the disease, but when latrines were holes in the ground and there was no running water, hygiene seemed like an insurmountable issue. Winter was coming and they knew tents would not be enough to protect them from the cold that was about to fall on them.

They were talking about leaving everyday, but the problem was what to do with the sick people. None of them were well enough to travel, even those who seemed to be on the mend – there was always a chance they could have a relapse, Doc had explained. It was a frustrating situation. People were dying and they were doing all they could to help them, but all they could obviously wasn't enough.

Castiel was the one to come up with a solution. One day he found a semi with a big enough trailer to carry all their sick in acceptable conditions, and he drove it back to the camp – Dean had taught him how to drive, like he had taught him how to shoot, or to shave, or thousands other human things. At the camp, he was welcomed by the first real smile Dean had in weeks.

Dean gathered everyone on one sunny morning.

"Okay, people, I have news," he announced. "I'm sure you're all aware of how shitty our current situation is. We're vulnerable to attacks, to the weather and with winter coming… We don't have running water or any real toilets. We need _buildings_. We need to move. So that's we're gonna do. Start packing, because we're leaving in two days."

Instantaneously, Dean's speech aroused anxious questions and exclamations, coming from all sides at the same time.

"Where are we going?"

"What are we going to do with the sick ones?"

"We can't leave them here! My husband..."

"And what about the Croats?"

Dean raised his hands.

"Okay, okay, everyone calm down! Hey!" The crowd quieted. "Thanks. I know you're scared. I know you've all been though a lot, and you're afraid of what is out there. But there's nothing for us here. And we're certainly not going to let our sick here to die. They're coming with us. Cas here found us a semi and it will be our hospital on wheels. Or something."

They left two days later, as Dean had planned. Doc and some volunteers took turns with driving the semi/"hospital on wheels," while Dean and Castiel were packed with Jim and his twin sister Emma into the Impala, which became of the leading and scouting vehicle. The other refugees followed as quickly as they could. Jim and Emma were young but they were good shots, having been taught by their dad, and they worshiped the ground Dean walked on.

Life on the road had never been Castiel's life as it was Dean's, so he was surprised to see how quickly they fell into a routine. The Impala would take the lead over the others and scout around the area, looking both for any threat and for a place where they could live. Then they would come back to the rest of the group, and Dean would check on the sick – and occasionally bury the dead -, share out food and water, and decide on some place to spend the night. They had brought their tents and they often had to camp outdoors, but sometimes they found a couple of abandoned houses that had escaped government bombing and they could sleep inside. Unfortunately, there was never quite enough room for them to think about living anywhere for good.

Once in a while they had to look for food and other supplies in the destroyed towns they passed by. Those were generally Croats hot zones, so Dean, Castiel, the twins and a few others went armed to the teeth and sometimes, not everyone came back.

It was maybe the tenth day; the Impala stopped on the side of the road and they got out, ready to go on reconnaissance. Dean spread a map on the hood and Castiel, Emma and Jim gathered around him. They had a few maps, none of them very reliable – bombing had changed the landscape too much – but it wasn't like they had anything else to work with. Maps were a source of infinite curiosity for Castiel. When he had still been able to teleport wherever he wanted to, he had never needed maps. He had an instinctive sense of where he was and where he wanted to go, of the earth and every of its inhabitants.

"But it doesn't look like that at all," he had said, confused, the first time he saw a map. Dean had laughed at him.

Today, however, nobody was in the mood for laugh. They were all tired and on edge because of the never-ending trip and the need to be constantly on the look for danger. Dean, in particular, looked very rough, pale face and dark smudges under his eyes. Castiel hadn't slept a lot since they had left the camp, but then he didn't need a lot of sleep. Dean had slept even less. Castiel was wondering how to tell his friend that he maybe needed rest without him getting defensive, when Emma spoke up first:

"Dean? Don't you think that one of us should drive, so you can get some sleep?"

Castiel winced. The girl didn't know Dean well enough yet to know what exactly she was asking.

"I'm fine," Dean replied absently, tracing a mental road on the map with his fingertip and rubbing his forehead with the knuckles of his other hand. "There should be a summer camp, twenty miles or so on the east. Camp Chitiqua. If it has not been destroyed it would be ideal for us… So I say we're following this road there as long as we can, and if it's been cut we could take this one here and…" He stopped talking, deep in thoughts and still rubbing his forehead.

"And what about driving, Dean?" Emma tried again. Jim mouthed to her, _shut up,_ but she ignored him with the ease of siblings. "Castiel could do it if you think me and Jimmy are too young. What do you say?"

"I'm driving."

"But…"

"End of discussion, Sam."

The twins blinked and Castiel's heart skipped a beat. He didn't know how to react to this, because Dean didn't seem aware he had said anything wrong, so should Castiel point out to him his slip of the tongue or not? Jim opened his mouth and Castiel decided that it was better he did it than have the twins ask who Sam was.

"Dean, you called her Sam."

"I did?" Dean blanched visibly, and he swallowed. "Uh, sorry, Em."

"It's… okay." For a second Castiel thought she was going to ask, but she was wise enough to keep her mouth shut. She shared a look with her brother, who didn't say anything either.

"Should we move?" Castiel asked to put an end to the horrible silence.

Dean shot him a quick grateful glance.

"Yeah, let's go."

Castiel tried to quell the uncomfortable feeling growing inside him, and resolved to make Dean rest after they had a look at the camp Chitiqua. But when they got to the camp and found the buildings intact, the area quiet, and even some running water – which was more than they even dared to dream for – Dean decided that it would be their final destination and the rest of the day was spent in getting back to the other refugees and leading them safely at the camp.

Patience is a virtue, though, and Castiel was – used to be – an angel, after all. Aren't angels supposed to be the epitome of virtue? He was never one to renounce it easily.

---

When night fell, Camp Chitaqua was still buzzing with activity. Once they had a scout round the area and were sure it was safe, there still was a lot of work to do in order to get everybody settled. They opened the windows of all the cabins, cleaned them up roughly, wiping dust and dead leaves. They unloaded the cars from everything they had managed to take from their former camp, tried to find a place for everyone to sleep and put their meager belongings, and most importantly, somewhere to turn into a makeshift infirmary for the sick who survived the trip.

Dean was trying to be everywhere at once, and almost succeeding. He was settling the arguments sparking between the refugees, tired and cranky and eager to find a place to finally rest; he was helping getting the sick from the trailer to the biggest building in the camp, which probably used to be a canteen; he was ordering some of his men to start patrolling around to make sure that the place was really safe. Castiel followed him everywhere, trying to get him to stop and settle for a moment before he keeled over. His only weapon was persistence, and he knew that when Dean got into one of his moods the way to go was to outstubborn him, so he kept trying again and again even as Dean snapped at him that he should find something useful to do.

"Would you just fucking leave me alone? You know what, you missed your calling, you're not an angel, you're a leech!"

"You need to rest, Dean. When was the last time you slept, huh? Come on." Feeling daring, Castiel stepped forward into Dean's personal space with a raised hand that was aiming at his friend's shoulder, but Dean flinched away and barked: "For God's sake, back off, Sam!"

Castiel stilled and bit his lip.

"Dean," Castiel pronounced carefully, "You called me Sam again."

"What? No, I…" Dean looked confused, mouth opening and closing, and Castiel felt a pang of worry. He still had a lot to learn about the way the human body worked, so he had to wonder – could lack of sleep and exhaustion make someone lose their mind?

"My name is Castiel," he reminded Dean, in case lack of sleep could alter memory too. "Sam is your…"

"I know who he is!" Dean interrupted him. "Jesus, you think I'll forget my… Anyway, I don't have time for your crap, I gotta…" He took a step, obviously intending to walk away, but then Castiel saw him falter, tilting forward with his hands in front of him like he was trying to find his way in the dark. Castiel caught him by the shoulders before he fell nose first into the mud.

"Get off me," Dean mumbled, struggling feebly against Castiel's grasp. "I gotta, I gotta…"

"You gotta go to bed. And sleep."

"But they need me…"

"Not right now. Come on, we'll find you somewhere to lie down. Can you walk?"

"I'm fine."

Castiel let go of Dean but stayed closed with his hands hovering, almost touching, just in case Dean got dizzy again. Dean could walk just fine though he apparently had no idea where to go, stumbling and zigzagging without purpose, but stubbornly standing upright and walking like he was on a mission.

"I'm fine," he repeated out of the blue.

"I know. Let's go over there," Castiel said, pointing to a still unoccupied cabin. He led an unnaturally subdued Dean in it, found a bed with a box spring but no mattress and got Dean to sit down.

"There. Will you be okay while I find you a blanket?"

"I'm…"

"Fine, I know."

"I am, I'm just…" Dean blinked, then rubbed his eyes. "I'm a little tired, I think."

"Yeah, that you are. Stay there, I'll be right back."

Castiel rushed through the camp to where the cars and the semi were parked, ignoring the people trying to call for him and stop him in his tracks. Whatever they needed, it surely could wait, and he had to get back to Dean. Dean had been hurt before, but seeing him so weakened and confused and calling him _Sam _made his stomach churn and he just… A blanket, he needed to find a blanket.

Once he did he came back to Dean as quickly as he could, and found him slumped against the headboard, eyes widened and eyebrows raised in an almost comical attempt to keep his eyes open. Castiel approached him slowly, careful not to startle his exhausted friend.

"Dean?"

"Cas. Uh, I think I'm okay now. I was a little… It was all so muddled, but now I'm alright."

He sounded lucid, which was relief, but he was also blinking convulsively, fighting sleep with obstinacy. He started to push himself up, but Castiel held him down with a firm hand on his chest.

"Lie down," he ordered, a hint of his old authority as a warrior of the Lord coming back to him. Dean was usually taller, but he was sitting down so it allowed Castiel to loom over him and the protests died before he had a chance to say them.

"You're bossy," he pouted, and it would have sounded childish if he hadn't looked so world-weary.

Castiel helped him out of his jacket, and rolled it so Dean could use it as a pillow. It wasn't warm enough in the cabin for Dean to take off any other piece of clothing, and Castiel was about to lay the blanket on him when Dean snatched it irritably from his hands.

"Don't need help," he grumbled as he wrapped himself up in the blanket, lying down on the uncomfortable looking springs.

Castiel shrugged and had a look around the room to find something he could sit on. There was a chair in a shadowed corner and he dragged it to sit at Dean's bedside. Dean's eyes were closed but it didn't feel like he was sleeping. Castiel folded his arms on his chest, resolving not to budge until Dean had enough rest.

"You gonna stay here?" Dean mumbled, the sound of his voice muffled because he had moved and was now hiding his face into the crook of his elbow.

"Well, yeah. Nothing better to do."

"Freak."

There was a long pause, and if Castiel wasn't so attuned to Dean's breathing he would have thought he had fallen asleep.

"I lost him, didn't I? I lost him for good."

There was no question who Dean was talking about, and Castiel wasn't cruel enough to make him say his brother's name. He swallowed, feeling an awkward lump in his throat and a painful tug at his heart. In his new human condition he had learned that most feelings and sensations hurt – well, except maybe orgasm; orgasm had been a nice discovery. They strained the glue that held him together and he often wondered how humans were able to stand it.

"I'm sorry."

It was a stupid thing to say, but it was the way human talk worked, piles of meaningless sentences that are here to fill the emptiness. It used to puzzle the hell out of him, but now he thought he got it. Like he got the real nature of the bond Dean shared with his brother. He had thought he understood it before, after he got Dean out of Hell, when he started to know him. He had thought he had him, _them _all figured out but he had been wrong. Family, loyalty, love, all these words could rightfully be applied to the brothers but they were somewhat lacking. Castiel had seen them together, and he had seen Dean alone, and he knew that when Dean still had Sam they were something more than just Sam and Dean. More than the sum of their parts. But Dean didn't have that anymore, and never would again.

"You really should sleep, Dean," Castiel said after a silence, having no comforting lies or encouraging truths to spare.

"And everything will look brighter on the morning?"

Dean's words were sluggish but the sarcasm wasn't lost on Castiel. He half-smiled sadly, though of course Dean couldn't see him with his eyes closed.

"In the morning, you'll have work to do."

Dean groaned, but didn't reply anything. Castiel leaned back on his chair and began to stand watch.

---

Dean started awake. His eyes snapped open and daylight was blinding him so he blinked, eyes filling with water. He didn't know what had woken him. He remembered being sent to bed by Castiel like a disobedient child, falling into darkness, and then waking up. He didn't remember dreaming but he couldn't shake off a weird feeling of dread. He rubbed his face vigorously.

"Hey, Dean. How did you sleep?"

Dean turned his head and found Castiel sitting by his bed.

"Like the dead. But, uh… tell me you didn't sit there all night, please."

"I'm afraid I did. I didn't move."

"Huh. So you just… watched me sleep. It's creepy, dude."

"I was watching over you."

_Angels are watching over you._

Dean snorted a laugh. Yeah. His mom probably didn't mean it so literally. He started to push himself in a sitting position.

"How do you feel?"

Dean threw his legs out of the bed. How did he feel? His head was pounding and he was sore all over, but his mind felt clearer, less hazy. That was definitely a plus.

"I'm okay."

He stood up, wanting to go to the door and get busy, having wasted enough time with sleeping, but for some reason he couldn't get himself to move. He could hear the noise of people outside, talking and walking and moving things – probably still unloading the cars and getting settled. They needed him, all these refugees who had survived horror. They relied on him; that was his life, now. But whatever he did it was, somehow, still all about Sam. _Sam, Sam, Sam_. It was Sam he thought about when he woke up in the morning, Sam again when he had to shoot one of his men infected with the Croatoan virus, and Sam when he went to bed at night.

Sam wasn't out there, in that camp they had finally found, their safe haven. He would never be there again – _Sam _was dead, and only Lucifer remained. Worse than Sam not being with him, it was the whole world being Samless, and it was sometimes more than Dean could bear.

"You sure you okay? Maybe you should sleep some more."

Dean felt Cas move behind his back, coming closer but not touching. He sure had learned his lesson about personal boundaries.

"No, I'm good. You said it yourself, I have work to do."

With these words, he stepped outside.


End file.
